The day he returned
by BBCRULES
Summary: John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. How would they react when Sherlock returned? Chapter 1: Punch a wrong bloke. Chapter 2: Greg. Chapter 3: Mrs. Hudson. Chapter 1 happens later than Chapter 2 and 3. I deeply appreciate AreYouReady for a wonderful betareading for chapter1. Thank you for reading. Please comment or review:)
1. Punch a wrong bloke

So many people expect the doctor vent off his anger to Sherlock with a few punches. Would the detective be the only one that the doctor threw his punches?

A short drabble (my first-ever drabble) on the reunion. Comments are very welcome. Thank you for reading.

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John started to run. He could hear someone calling his name but didn't care. His breathing got heavier quickly, the result of neglecting to exercise in the past few years. Since the fall, the doctor had no need to run around the complex of alleys lacing London anymore. Sweat beaded on his face. His eyes burned. He ignored the cramps in his stomach. The bitter taste of disloyalty lingering in his mouth was all that occupied him at that moment.

Three years… He'd been left completely in the dark, trying to keep himself from breaking down while he thought _he_ was dead.

The worst day was when his detective friend jumped, right in front of his eyes. He had witnessed many brutal deaths in Afghanistan, but never a suicide in his unit. Heading back to Bart's, John desperately sought God, an activity he had stopped doing entirely since his best friend in the army died in a roadside bombing. Trying to ignore the tight knot in his stomach, he swore he would do anything if Sherlock was okay. His mobile rang when he got out of the cab. That last phone call could've undone the doctor even if he hadn't seen the bloody lifeless body of his friend on the pavement seconds later. Everything had felt so unreal. He remembered nothing of the funeral. The only recollection was Sherlock's broken mobile found on the rooftop. Lestrade showed Sherlock's cracked iPhone as evidence to him and Mycroft days after the funeral. The screen seemed to represent John's world: shattered into pieces.

The second-worst day in his life was when he got a rejection letter from the army a year later. He was rendered useless again. His only family, Harry, relapsed and stayed distant. His best friend died in a disgraceful suicide. The army didn't want him anymore. Mycroft was unbearable. The other "friends" invoked too many painful memories. John Watson was a broken man before Mike Stamford referred him to a small practice in his neighborhood. The practice and the weekly visit to the grave of his friend... These were the only interactions with the world for the doctor in seclusion. It was only a year ago that he started to answer the calls or send texts back to Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, or Greg Lestrade.

Panting, John opened the door, ignored screams of people, and finally found him. The man stood up, almost petrified at the roiling emotions emanating from John. The doctor could hear a scurry of footsteps behind him. They were too late. John's hands balled into fists and then…a straight punch on the man's face, and then another... The man staggered down on the floor. Soon drops of blood fell on his face, clothes, and the floor. A rusty smell filled the air. The man's eyes met the doctor's. One set of eyes held betrayal, rage, and distrust while the other set showed nothing but a mixture of amusement and resignation. The man took out his handkerchief, but it was soaked through seconds later. A woman ran into the room and helped the man sit down. Then she whisked herself out to get some ice.

Someone stopped right behind the doctor. That man's lips were already bruised and swollen; a couple of red marks on his face would turn black and blue the next day. John could hear a mumble that sounded like his name from the man standing behind him. The doctor's shoulders flinched when he registered the baritone voice.

In silence John turned around, took a deep breath, and headed out without a glance at the room. Someone in uniform tried to stop him, but the man on the chair gestured to let the doctor go. The woman scurried back with a tray of ice cubes and gauzes. She asked cautiously,

"Do you need to see a doctor, sir?"

"No, I don't think so. Thanks for the ice, Anthea."

The man answered and gestured the other man to sit down. The other man slumped on the next chair. Their eyes met. Instantly the two bruised men burst into low chuckles. The brothers applied ice packs to their swollen faces.

"It could've been worse, Sherlock."

Mycroft said.

"That's John Watson."

His brother agreed.


	2. Greg

Lestrade's flat

Lestrade dragged his feet to his flat. Today he must have gotten up on the wrong side of bed. In the morning, his boss called in all of the DIs and growled "so-called" encouraging comments.

"Ever since the plain clothes Criminal Investigation Department (CID) came into existence, there have been many devoted and committed detectives who have made the street of London safer. I know and deeply appreciate your commitment and sacrifice. However, crimes are on the rise, cold cases are accumulating, and the future of the CID is now up to you."

At this moment, the Chief Detective Investigator glared at Lestrade.

"The public see you as the frontline of the judicial system. Your performance indicator is the number of cases that result in conviction. I'd expect a better performance from every one of you."

Lestrade felt his face burn; his team had been on the decline in terms of case closed. After Sherlock died, the number of cold cases have skyrocketed. Every detective missed the days when the young sleuth billowed his coat around the crime scene and pinpointed the murderer(s) based on his deduction. Three years ago he took his own life and everybody in the Yard was feeling responsible for his death.

At the moment Lestrade was working on the murder of Ronald Adair.

_A week ago, his body was found in his sitting room, with a window open, working on his stock account using his laptop. The door was locked from the inside while only one window was open for ventilation. A slim person could've slipped out of the room, but Adair's flat was 6th floor- about 45-foot drop. He had an engagement ring for his fiancée and it wasn't stolen. Actually Adair's family confirmed that nothing had been stolen. A sniper shop could be possible but the only possible sniping position was the opposite building which was under construction. Workers were questioned but there were no eyewitnesses. Adair was very popular in his job and has a vast network of friends. Everybody close to him had an alibi._

He was on his way with Anderson to the opposite building; he got two coffees for himself and the forensic scientist. To his surprise, Anderson muttered out that he had been feeling guilty for Sherlock's death. Over the past year, Anderson often got depressed, spent more hours at the lab, overworked over cases, and broke up with Sally Donovan. Lestrade made a hollow laugh although he was rather moved at Anderson's change: it was Anderson's first acknolwedgement of his guilt.

"Isn't it too late to say an apology? Three years... He died and won't come back from his grave."

He regretted his words almost immediately. He was no better than Anderson: he should've stopped the two. In silence, the two rechecked the scene again; the owner of the building was threatening a civil action if the police delayed the construction as longer. The opposite building was not a crime scene. Today was Friday and the work was to resume next Monday. They didn't have that much time.

Lestrade had a few beers with Anderson and a few other detectives that night. Often detectives just carried on their job on the pride that they were doing something to ensure safer London. Sometimes their work couldn't end up in court just because of technicalities and it was disheartening enough on top of heavy workload and emotional toll dealing with victims and their families. Some of the cases that the dead sleuth had solved had to reinvestigated as "Sherlock" was not supposed to be involved in them although almost all of the cases had been validated. On a day like this, Lestrade really missed the detective.

He got out of a cab. His gait was rather unbalanced, but he had managed to get to his flat. There was a black sedan parked nearby that he had never seen in the neighborhood, but he didn't care that much.

He punched the numbers to open the door. Feeling dizzy and sleepy, he staggered into the kitchen and got a water bottle from the refrigerator. He was almost emptying half of the bottle when he heard, he could swear, footsteps. There was an intruder or was it a radio program? He thought he had turned off the radio this morning.

Then the light was turned on in his sitting room. Lestrade jumped, opened the kitchen drawer, and grabbed a knife. He usually didn't keep his gun at home.

"Who's there? Police!"

"Isn't it unsafe to carry the knife? I hope your swordmanship is not as bad as your marksmanship."

Lestrade doubted his ears. He dropped the knife. It wasn't possible. The voice was _his_. But _he_ took _his_ own life three years ago. Again Lestrade was hearing things. The same thing had happened for months since Sherlock died. He often caught himself answering Sherlock's questions or barking words out at the detective, who had died. Then who turned on the light? A poltergeist? He was thinking that he should make an appointment with the Yard therapist when a ghost materialized in front of him.

Sherlock Holmes. The ghost was visiting him after three years. _His_ skin was almost translucent. _He_ was thinner…and… _he_ was wearing Hawaiian shirt and short pants? No, no. A spirit was supposed to wear the clothes that it had worn at the moment of death. _He_ should be wearing the dark coat, the blue scarf and the black pants.

"Lestrade."

A realization fell upon the DI instantly. He rubbed his eyes a few times and opened them again. He didn't think he would be able to say something, but a word came out of his mouth somehow.

"Sher...lock?"

"Yes. I've just come back to London."

Lestrade couldn't stop his voice from trembling.

"You're not dead? You didn't commit a suicide? Oh, God. You are alive!"

The last bit of words was almost yelling. He walked closer and reached out his arm to touch Sherlock's face, shoulders, and hand. His body was warm. He pinched Sherlock's cheek as hard as he could. The detective winced and asked in annoyance.

"That's not the welcome that I was expecting. Stop it."

"You are not a ghost. Bloody hell."

Lestrade slumped on his sofa. Soon a practical question popped out.

"How did you get in?"

Sherlock almost looked offended.

"Your password is your birthday in reverse order. Easy enough to notice. Only four digit."

Lestrade felt dizzy, still trying to comprehend the fact that he was actually conversing with a dead man.

"Then whom did we bury in your grave three years ago?"

The sleuth answered,

"A few bags of sand. Mycroft dealt with it."

"How did you survive the fall? It's almost 40-foot fall."

Sherlock shrugged it off, and said,

"Isn't it enough that I'm back, alive and well?"

"Why?"

"Too complicated. To cut it short, my friends were to die unless I jumped."

"Yes, we managed to deduce why."

His eyes burned and he had to blink a few times not to cry. All of his guilt, gratitude, anger, and joy of reunion were swirling into a large lump in his throat. Swallowing it hard, the DI managed to ask in a chipped voice,

"Did you see John?"

"No, right from the airport."

The detective pointed at his luggage with an airline tag on.

"Three years, Sherlock. Bloody three years. What have you been doing? Where have you been?"

"Abroad. Had some job to do."

"In the pretense of death? You couldn't have contacted any of us? Who knew you were alive?"

"Molly and Mycroft. They helped me to fake my death. You, Mrs. Hudson, and John had to be kept in darkness for your own safety. Snipers trained on you…"

Lestrade shut his mouth up. He had been feeling guilty since he learnt that Sherlock died to save the three friends including him. His face always burned when he thought about the stupid attempt to arrest the sleuth the night before the suicide. It was the reason that he had shunned away Anderson and Donovan although he acknowledged that the two might well get suspicious of Sherlock's involvement in the kidnapping. He asked in a hurry,

"Where are you going to stay? You can stay here if you want. By the way, John doesn't live in the flat anymore."

"I'm going back to the flat after this."

"What about John?"

"In due time. Just don't call him right after I leave."

"John's almost engaged. Did you know?"

"That's one reason that I'm not seeing him today. The other is... that there is still one minion of Moriarty that I have to deal with. The name is Moran, I mean the code name for the sniper is Tiger the Moran. Don't tell anyone that I'm back. Here is my new mobile number."

Lestrade couldn't help but ask,

"Then why are you here?"

"You are a man of trust, and I may need your help to catch Moran."

His words made Greg's throat tighten. Sherlock checked on the incoming text.

"I need to go. Mycroft's car is waiting outside."

Sherlock put on a wig of blond hair, a straw hat with a wide brim, and glasses. He looked like a tourist who had just come back from Hawaii. Lestrade nodded, and held out his hand. The two shook their hands, and abruptly Lestrade gave Sherlock a rib-breaking hug. He just whispered; he didn't care that Sherlock was almost petrified on the spot; he muttered out the words that he had wished to say over the past three years.

"You're not dead. Thank God. Sherlock. Welcome back to London."

Sherlock cleared his throat, apparently taken aback at the sudden outburst of emotions. Sentiment had never been his area.

"See you later, Greg."

Lestrade awkwardly detached himself from the sleuth. He couldn't believe that Sherlock called his first name. Sherlock quickly pulled his bag along and headed outside before astonished DI could pull him into another hug.

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Since I wrote "Punch the wrong bloke", I've wondering how Lestrade and Mrs. H would react to Sherlock's return. I hope you enjoyed reading. Thanks a lot:-)


	3. Mrs Hudson

221 A

The doorbell rang. The porch light was out and Mrs. Hudson had forgotten to buy a new light bulb. Wondering who could be visiting given it was almost 9 o'clock, she dragged her slippers and opened the door. A man who looked like a tourist was standing there.

"Yes? How can I help you?"

The man took a step closer, pulling his luggage, and walked into the flat. The door closed shut and Mrs. Hudson was about to scream for help when a low voice stopped her.

"It's me, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock Holmes."

The man opened her flat door wider so that the lighting of her sitting room can illuminate himself. The intruder had just flung off his glasses, a wig, and a hat: pale skin, protrusion of the cheekbones, the green eyes, curly dark hair. The man sheepishly said something, which was meaningless noise. A bottomless darkness engulfed her and she just lost it.

She found herself lying on her sofa with a shawl covering on her body. She must have hallucinated as it wasn't possible to see him again. She had attended his funeral three years ago.

_I might have dozed off while watching telly._

She thought and sat up, feeling very thirsty. A low voice stopped her immediately.

"Are you all right? Don't stand up. What do you need? Here's a glass of water."

She jumped at this. Her eyes found the man, her former tenant, sitting on her armchair.

"Am I dreaming still?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson. It's me. Sherlock. I came back."

Sherlock gently placed the water glass in front of her and kneeled before her. He looked thinner and paler; his skin looked almost translucent.

"Are you really Sherlock?"

He wrapped her hands with his hands and squeezed them. His smile was almost sheepish.

"I'm flesh and blood."

Mrs. Hudson slapped the sleuth hard on his back. The sorrow of losing her boy turned into an anger when she finally registered the reality. Sherlock Holmes winced but didn't say anything.

"You naughty boy… How could've done to all of us? John was devastated. Greg Lestrade, too. When we were told why you had jumped, we were all wrecks. Oh, Sherlock. I am so sorry."

"All is well. Mrs. Hudson. Don't."

Something snapped; she started to sob severely. Her frail body shuddered. Sherlock held her gently, and whispered.

"I'm so sorry that I couldn't say anything. I had to fake my death."

"We knew, we knew...why you had died... We just wished you hadn't."

The landlady wept,

"It's just I am so happy to see you again, Sherlock."

"I missed you, Mrs. Hudson."

Hiccupping, she managed to snarl: at least she thought she did.

"Don't you dare to pull this stunt again, promise, son."

"Yes, I swear."

Mrs. Hudson's mothering instinct kicked in. She wiped her nose and eyes with her sleeves, not caring that she was wearing a new nightgown.

"Did you have dinner?"

"ugh, ..."

"I'll fix you something. Don't go anywhere."

Sherlock gave an assuring smile.

"This is my home, Mrs. Hudson. Where can I go?"

She couldn't say anything. Sherlock looked puzzled at the silence. He swallowed hard, and asked in a small voice.

"I can move in today, can't I?"

She nodded, and disappeared into her kitchen. After minutes, she brought a tray of tea, bread and jam, slices of cheese, and apples.

"I need to go to Tesco tomorrow. Oh, I need to fill your refrigerator, too. Sherlock, when you go upstairs, put the freezer plug to the power outlet."

Sherlock didn't decline food that Mrs. Hudson put on his plate. He chewed slowly, and tried to finish his portion.

"Your brother has been paying for the upstairs flat. Does he know you're alive? He knew, didn't he?"

"Mycroft couldn't say anyting to you."

"How can he put on a façade of indifference in front of John while he saw how John suffered?"

Her voice couldn't hide the accusation, and Sherlock knew it would take ages for his brother to be allowed into the building. He didn't defend his brother anymore, but changed the topic abruptly because that was his priority concern now. The detective asked in a voice with a fake nonchalance.

"How's John? He doesn't live here."

It wasn't a question, but a statement.

"His therapist advised him to move out. Too much painful memory, here. John told me that he said something to you that he really shouldn't have that morning when he got a fake call from a paramedic. After we knew there had been killers trained on us, he was more depressed. He hated himself for not being there with you at the moment that you needed him the most. It was almost a miracle that he met Mary."

"So this Mary person helped John to move on. Good."

He tried to hide his disappointment. He wasn't sure why he felt in that way. It should be a good thing that his friend was able to move on, getting over his death. Mrs. Hudson didn't notice the subtle change of his voice tone. She continued on and on about how John and Mary had met, how John got his job at a practice, and so on. Sherlock listened in silence, absorbing the information if necessary. Mrs. Hudson asked,

"And the DI..."

"I've just seen him at his place. Mrs. Hudson, there is one thing that I have to ask."

"Anything, my dear boy."

"John can't know that I'm alive. The sniper that had been trained on him was still out there. I need a few more days, then I will see John..."

The landlady was about to object, but Sherlock hastily added,

"For his own safety."

Mrs. Hudson fell silent, nodded gravely, jotted down the address and gave the note to the detective. Her voice was stern.

"When everything settles, Sherlock, you really have to go and see John. He suffered."

"I promise."

Sherlock said, and glanced at his watch.

"It's almost ten o'clock. You must be tired. I'll go upstairs. Ah, this is for you, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock held out a duty-free bag of Darjeeling tea boxes that Mycroft's assistant had given him a few moments before.

"You really don't have to... Sherlock. I'm so happy that you're back. I'll see you tomorrow at 8:00 for breakfast. Take this waterbottle with you. There's nothing upstairs."

"Good night."

After seconds of hesitation, it just slipped out of his mouth.

"It's great to be home, Mr. Hudson."

Sherlock took the water bottle and walked upstairs to his flat. She was cleaning away the tray when she heard a shout from upstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

She walked out to the staircase and asked,

"What, Sherlock?"

"Where's Billy? The skull?"

"John took it."

"Oh..."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. Over that night, Sherlock didn't realize that his landlady sneaked a visit three times upstairs just to check on him, to be assured that he was still there.

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I hope you enjoyed the stories:-) Thanks for reading. Comments are very appreciated.


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